


The Language of Hands

by elfladyarwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hands, Holding Hands, M/M, Profound Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfladyarwen/pseuds/elfladyarwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wonders why he's never paid attention to his angels hands before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Hands

_Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain._  
~Carl Jung

 

They’re ten miles outside the Delaware stateline, the highway empty and cold, when Castiel stretches an arm up to switch the tape deck over to the other side. This would have been an unexceptional event, passing without notice if not for the shard of moonlight that hit Cas’ wrist, highlighting the already pale skin and drawing Dean’s attention.

It makes him pause, forces him to consider exactly how...well, pretty the angel’s hands are. He frowns, wondering why he’s never really seen it before.

Those hands are elegant and slim between the joints, they remind Dean of a musician’s. They had at one point in time been stolen, Jimmy’s devout and worshipping hands, but have since been molded into something completely Castiel. There is more there than just bones and sinew and long tapered ligaments.

They give him away for what he really is, tell tale signs that something alien and other-worldly lingers beneath that skin. Angel hands are too still while at rest, too graceful and efficient when carrying out a task. Every move they make is calculated and sure, lacking the unrefined hope of success with which human hands work. In the blue of Cas’ veins flows not only blood, but the smoldering, barely contained energy of a being millions of years old. A force mighty enough to melt Dean’s senses if the thin barrier of flesh was to be removed. It ought to terrify him, and on some level he supposes it does, but not near as much as it should.

He loves everything about Cas’ hands.

They are rougher than they look. They have mapped out every inch of his body, have been on and in and around him so many times now, he’s starting to lose count. They always taste of sea salt and citrus, like the rest of Cas’ skin. They clutch at Dean’s shoulders in fear and confusion just before Castiel falls over the edge into ecstasy. _Shhh,_ Dean tells them wordlessly, _I’ve got you. Don’t worry. The bond between us is strong and my grip is sure. I won’t let you fall._ They clutch at him in acceptance and love and they know they are not alone in taking the plunge. When Cas won’t talk, Dean can read him through the way he holds his hands. He knows what it means when they flex to full length, Cas preparing himself for something big or trying to reign in a new emotion he’s yet to figure out how to handle. He knows what it means when Cas’ fists clench in on themselves in white-knuckled rage or frustration. When Cas is depressed or wounded, he knows to be on the look out for a plea to be held, an open-palmed invitation to be touched out of need for comfort. Dean always complies. He knows Cas through the language of his hands, almost better then he knows himself.

Those hands have the power to heal. They have painstakingly scooped up Dean atom by atom and glued him back together, wiped off the sludge and placed him back into the realm of the living like he’s something precious and worth the effort. They have erased Death’s decree, waving it away with a stubborn finality until breath is sucked into lungs once collapsed and shrivelled. They have knitted together Dean’s flesh and the flesh of his loved ones time and again, replacing agony with peace and burning with cool relief. These are the hands that night after night brush the nightmares like cobwebs away from Dean’s face and tell him through soft touches that _It’s alright now, hush. You are good and bright and safe. There is nothing to fear here because I am with you._ Dean trusts those fingertips, though he fears it may one day be his undoing.

Those hands have the power to destroy. They can weave treason in the blink of an eye and bleed Dean worse then anything he ever encountered in the depths of Hell. They are fierce in their retribution, for an angel’s wrath is unmerciful and swift. He’s been on the receiving end of the blows that come from those fists, been knocked damn near into next week by the rage that stems from Castiel bent on decimating an enemy. Dean has seen the lights of Heaven snuffed out beneath Castiel’s suffocating fingers, the blood stains invisible to the naked eye, but always present and coating every inch of those white digits. Dean recognizes a brother of violence in Cas’ hands, for his own mirror those same red spots that won’t ever wash off. Those hands scream of murder, _Beware. For I will end you if you let yourself be drawn too close. Away from me- stay away._

Those hands span time and existence. They are older then the Earth and have touched things and places that Dean’s feeble mind can’t begin to try to label. It isn’t hard for Dean to imagine the night light as residue from distant star systems once brushed while in angelic flight; the dust from super novas perhaps!- gathered lovingly as keepsakes into Castiel’s palm, to remember once the star had burned itself cold and dead. Dean likes to think some remenants of himself might be allowed to gather and mix forever on those fingertips one day after he’s no more.

“What is it?”

Dean is startled out of his reverie when Castiel finally asks this with a tilt of his head, his blue eyes too-wide in the car’s dark.

“Nothing.” He rubs absently at the scar hiding beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Castiel's gaze narrows briefly, worried, knowing well enough the thousands of words Dean's nothing can convey. “You look like you’re far away.”

Cas tracks Dean’s hand from the steering wheel to his marked arm unblinkingly.

“Nah. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Cas.” Dean gives him the smallest of smiles and reaches over to entwine his fingers through Cas’.

_I will stay. I will stay with you because you are all I know now. My accidental love, you are beautiful to me,_ he tries to convey with the gentle thumb he runs over the angel’s knuckles because he doesn’t know how to admit such things out loud.

The paler hand immediately locks onto Dean’s, as if it’s been waiting an eternity to have the spaces between it’s fingers filled by him.


End file.
